I ignore the fact that it’s a spectacular profile.
“Why?” I demand.
Lark shrugs and sets the clean onion on the paper towel next to its brother. Then he looks at me, blue eyes all glinty. “Consider it a balancing of the scales. I’ll do the chores, and you skip out tonight.”
My mouth falls open. “You can’t be serious.”
His smile is a mix of mischief and magnetism like I’ve never seen. “Go be a rebel.”
“What?”
He peels the plastic off the package of mushrooms and washes them with the sprayer. “I’ll make dinner for your crew, and you go do whatever it is you’d want to do if you ever let yourself play hooky.”
Play hooky? I’ve never played hooky in my life.
“You can’t do that.”
He frowns at me, but in a way that I know is teasing. “I can follow a recipe, you know.”
“Well—Sure—I mean, I can’t let you do that.”
He sets the sprayer back in its slot, balls a fist and rests his chin on it, eyeing me clinically. “Yes, I see the problem.”
“What problem?”
“Controlling. Anxious. Structured. Responsible. You’ve got all the symptoms.”
“Of what? Tenant-itis?” I quip, proud of my corny joke.
He laughs and points a finger at me. The finger—his whole hand—is covered with droplets of water, and I’m struck by how ridiculously sexy this looks. When did droplets of water on hands become sexy?
“Good one,” he says. Then he scoops the mushrooms out of the carton, shakes them off—more water droplets—and sets them on the towel next to the onions. “But no. You’re suffering from Birth Order Displacement Syndrome.”
“You’re so full of sh—”
“And the only known cure is a night off to do something irresponsible and self-indulgent.” He turns away from the sink, facing me fully and staring down at me with complete focus. It’s more than a little intense. “Right now.”
My mouth goes dry. I swallow.
Okay, my panties might be a little wet.
He arches a brow, waiting, it appears, for my response.
When one doesn’t come, he tilts his chin to the side and eyes me with mild concern. “What’s wrong?’
I lick my lips, suddenly embarrassed. “I-I-I don’t think I can accept.”
Lark’s eyes narrow. Shit, they are opioids. I can’t stop looking at them. “Why not?”
Will he think I am completely lame?
“Why not, Stella?”
It’s the way he says my name that gives me the tiniest scrap of reassurance that he won’t laugh in my face.
“I’m too tired.”
He blinks. “Sorry?”
I bite my bottom lip. His eyes drop to the gesture, but I ignore that quagmire of feelings and just blurt it out. “I’m too tired to do anything rebellious or self-indulgent. Like go clubbing with Pen or head to Rhythms on the River. Can you let me make dinner, and I’ll take a rain check?”
“No.”
I blink, surprised. “O-Okay, that’s fine. I mean, I get that—”
“No, you don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not letting you make dinner.”
“What?”
“Nobody said you had to go clubbing to be self-indulgent. Go take a bubble bath. Give yourself a mani-pedi. Put your feet up and do some online shopping—”
All of these suggestions sound so marvelous, my bones threaten to turn to broth right here in the kitchen.
“But you’re not making dinner tonight.” He pins me with that vivid gaze, practically daring me to contradict him.
I can only nod. “Okay.”
His lips, too masculine to be called pretty but pretty all the same, quirk. “But for the record?”
“Yeah?” I ask, sounding parched.
“You and Pen want to tie one off, and you need someone to keep an eye on your brother and make dinner for Little Miss Sassy, ask me first.”
My lips part. “I-I couldn’t do that.”
Lark frowns. “You think Nina’s up for it?’
I almost choke. “What? No—”
“And I don’t think Livy’s ever been a member of the Baby Sitters Club—”
It seems wrong not to argue. “That’s a little—”
He eyeballs me. “Have you ever talked to her?”
He has a point.
“Pen seems to like her,” I defend.
His chin tuck and brow raise speak volumes. I can’t help it. I laugh.
Gratification looks good on Lark Bienvenue.
“I have five younger brothers and sisters, one nephew and one niece. Lots of childcare experience.”
My thoughts seem to have slowed, but it occurs to me that I don’t know any other man who’s ever bragged about his childcare experience.
“Bubble bath. Mani-Pedi. Online shopping,” he says, his voice both rough and soft like a loofah on soapy skin. “I’ll text when dinner’s ready.”
I must be really, really tired because I can’t argue anymore. Instead I just nod.
I look over at Maisy at the table just finishing her banana. She has mushed fruit on her fingers and face. Maybe a little in her hair.
“Let me just get her cleaned—”
Lark puts out a hand to stop me. “We got this.”
He tugs a paper towel off the roll, runs it under the tap, wrings it out, and lopes over to the table. He offers it to Maisy as if he’s asking her to dance. “Show me how it’s done, kid.”
She giggles and takes the wet napkin from him and runs it over her mouth and face before rubbing it between her hands. She may not be completely fruit-free, but it’s good enough.
Maisy slaps the napkin back in his waiting palm like she’s giving him a low five.
“Want to help me make dinner?” he asks.
Her glasses magnify her excitement. “Yeah!”
Lark drags a chair over to the counter by the stove. “I’ll handle the sharp stuff and the hot stuff, and you handle the rest, okay?”
“Okay,” Maisy agrees, scrambling up on the chair. Lark sets down a cutting board in front of them and transfers the vegetables in front of Maisy.
“You put a mushroom down every time I finish cutting one. Got it?” he instructs.
“Got it,” she says on a nod.
I watch, and she does just that. I’m grinning like a fool when Lark frowns at me over his shoulder. “Keep up your end of the bargain, Mouton. Bubble bath—”
“Mani-pedi. Online shopping,” I finish. “Yeah, I’m going.”
And I do, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m walking away from the hottest thing that’s ever happened in this kitchen.
Chapter Twelve
LARK
On Monday, I wake up hard. Thinking about Stella. For the fourth morning in a row.
It takes more than one billion years and 725,000 pounds of pressure to turn carbon atoms into a diamond. I turned Salon Stella into Soft Stella in thirty minutes just by applying a little heat to some meat and vegetables.
I know a one-carat rough diamond can fetch four hundred dollars from the right buyer. But when Stella sauntered back into the kitchen, wrapped up in that white robe I spotted on her bed, all flushed and dewy-eyed from her bath, smelling like Sweet Olive and woman?
Priceless.
The best part? The last few days, even when she’s dressed to the nines, rushing out the door or coming in with an armful of groceries, full-on Salon Stella, and she clocks me? I catch a glimpse of that softness in her prehnite green eyes.
Maybe waking up in this state is a bad sign, but at least my landlady and I are in a better place than the day I moved in. I wouldn’t go so far as to say she’d call me her friend, but we’re allies. And from what I’ve seen, Stella Mouton is a person anyone would be lucky to have in their corner.
The woman takes care of everyone in her world.
And not in the brow-beating, prying way Mom does. Or the spatula-wielding, boss
y way Maggie does. Stella added us all to a GroupMe and texts us when she’s going to the store, asking if we need anything. I’ve heard her checking in with Nina more than once to find out when she’s leaving for work and when she’ll be home. I’m not certain, but I think it’s to make sure Nina’s never in the house by herself.
Which is rare since Pen is here most days. And Tyler’s here nearly all the time.
But she looks after Livy too, just not as overtly.
Yesterday, Stella made French toast for breakfast. And when Livy exclaimed that it was her favorite, Stella just smiled a sly smile as if she already knew.
And I don’t know if Livy has noticed it yet—it’s small—but on the bumper of Stella’s Accord, there’s a new sticker. Two hands. One white and one brown with their pinkies clasped. Between their hands are the words, We see you. We hear you. We stand with you.
Yeah, Stella’s an ally to everyone. If she isn’t their outright savior.
On Thursday when I drove Nina home, she told me that she thinks Stella made up the whole free breakfast thing just to help her out. I can see that.
And once you see that about a person, you can’t unsee it.
So maybe Soft Stella is really there all the time.
I’m still lying in bed thinking of her softness when my phone buzzes.
Maggie: This afternoon still good?
Me: Yeah, 4ish if that works for you. I’ll watch the runts.
Yesterday, Nina gave me the go-ahead to reach out to Maggie for some advice. Her asshole ex keeps sending his friends into the restaurant. They’re not getting ugly, but every time they go in, they try to talk Nina into going back to him.
It sucks.
The restaurant is closed on Mondays, so today works. And if this is how I get my sister-in-law to start talking to me again after the crewcut catastrophe, I’ll consider it a win.
My phone buzzes again. I blink to refocus on the words.
Maggie: Please tell me you’re not sleeping with this girl.
“What?!”
Me: Of course not!
I scowl at the phone, watching her response dots bounce and disappear. Bounce and disappear.
Maggie: Mmm hmm.
Me: WTF? Mags, she’s a friend. Is that so hard to believe?
She doesn’t reply. I wait so long I run the risk of missing my window for the shower. Once Livy claims the bathroom, forget about it.
I give up on hearing back from Maggie, but I make it downstairs before Stella leaves for work. I know by the hour that she’s already dropped Maisy off at school. When I enter the kitchen, she’s alone at the table. A rarity.
She glances up from her phone. “Sorry. It’s just cereal, fruit, and boiled eggs today.”
“Sounds amazing.”
She sniffs a laugh and goes back to her phone and coffee, but I’m not kidding. I serve myself a bowl of granola, scoop some fruit salad on top of it, and douse the thing with milk. I grab two of the boiled eggs from the tray on the counter and sit opposite her.
“Seriously, you have no idea how easy this makes my morning,” I say gesturing to the food.
She examines my breakfast with a frown. “But you’re not even having coffee.” Her travel mug is in front of her, and I have no doubt it’s full.
“I’ll get some on my way out. Gotta have something to get me through Stratigraphy.”
Her frown turns wry. “Okay, College Boy, what’s Stratigraphy?”
I shovel a bite of cereal into my mouth and chew while I try to decide how I feel about being called College Boy.
Not good, I decide.
“It’s the study of rock layers, geochronological data, and superposition.”
She narrows her gaze at me. “Now you’re just trying to sound smart.”
I rap an egg on the table to crack the shell, smirking. “I don’t have to try.”
Stella rolls her eyes.
“I’m kidding,” I say, laughing.
“Sure you are.” She’s grinning now, but her eyes are curious. “What are you going to do with that geology degree anyway? Work for Big Oil?”
I shake my head. Everybody assumes that, but I don’t give a shit about oil. It’s just, usually, I don’t bother correcting them.
“I’m more interested in mine safety.”
I’ve surprised her. That’s obvious. “Really?”
I nod, still wondering why I’ve decided to share this with her. But she’ll drop it. Most people aren’t interested.
Stella sets her phone down. “Why?”
“You really wanna know?”
Her eyes flash. “I’m asking.”
I meet her gaze. “I was joking around a minute ago, but I am smart,” I say. “And those poor bastards down there need someone smart.”
Yeah, I’ve surprised her again. Her lips part. “What poor bastards?”
“You know the salt mines around New Iberia and Avery Island?”
She gives a shrugging nod. “I’ve heard of them.”
“Know anyone who has worked in them?”
“No.”
I smirk. “Well, now you do.”
Her eyes get big. “You’ve worked in a salt mine?”
“Like father, like son.”
“What’s it like?”
My smile ranges free. “Beautiful.”
If she looked surprised before, she’s completely gobsmacked now. “Beautiful?”
I nod, still smiling.
She frowns in disbelief. “It’s not dark and icky and… scary?”
“Definitely not icky,” I say, chuckling. My shrug is half-hearted. “Sometimes dark... I was never scared down there.” I try not to stress the pronoun, but it comes out that way regardless.
She doesn’t miss it. “You were never scared?”
I raise a brow. I’m not sure I want to go there, but she’s asking. “You really want to hear this?”
Stella leans back in her chair. “My first client isn’t until ten today.”
My first class isn’t until ten either. I just have to go over my notes. Professor Downs is known and feared for his reading quizzes, and it’s been a minute since he gave us one.
“The first time my dad took me down into the Avery Island salt mine, I was seven. Bear was nine,” I say, grinning at the memory. “We weren’t technically supposed to be there, of course, but it was the weekend during the summer, and Dad was a shift foreman, so nobody was going to tell him anything. He outfitted us with hard hats, headlamps, and reflective vests, and down we went.”
Stella’s eyes warm with her smile. Is she picturing seven-year-old me dressed as a miner? I cinch down on my own smile.
“And down there in that salt dome? It was another world. Like being able to run wild on the moon.” I can taste the salt on my lips at the memory. “Bear was spooked. He stuck to Dad like duct tape, but I wanted to follow every tunnel. Run my hand over every pillar.”
She shakes her head, her brows drawing down just a little. “Is it like a cave?”
“Sort of. It’s dark and cool like a cave, but it’s also a lot more orderly.”
“Orderly?” Her surprise is back.
“Man-made tunnels and atriums. Roads, even.” I lick my lips, wanting her to understand. “Some natural caves have huge rooms that could hold whole tribes of people—like the Cherokee in the Lost Sea Caverns. Open. Airy. Smoothed out floors that make for comfortable and safe living.”
She blinks at me. “You’ve just described every cave in Scooby Doo. They aren’t all like that?”
“No,” I say, chuckling. “A lot of them are small or difficult to traverse because of rocks, tiny crawl spaces, stalagmites, waterfalls, underground lakes, sinkholes, you name it. Awe-inspiring, but definitely not orderly.”
She studies me for so long, I just have to ask. “How many caves have you been in?”
She huffs. “None.”
Now I’m the one who’s surprised. “None?”
Her prim brow arches. “I guess I’m not the
spelunking type.”
“You’ll never know unless you try,” I challenge.
“How many caves have you been in?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
“More than twenty?” she asks, squinty-eyed.
“Easy.”
Now she’s downright shocked. “Where?”
I pull in a breath. “Let’s see. Arkansas, Texas, Oklahoma, Tennessee, Georgia…” I count off the ones that were drivable and try to remember all the trips we’ve taken as a family. Then the ones I’ve done with friends or as part of my degree program and summer internships. “Idaho, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico—“
“In other words,” Stella interrupts my litany, “everywhere.”
I’m sure my grin is both satisfied and hungry. “Not even close.”
“But you’d like to explore all of them?” The curious spark in her eyes tugs at something under my ribs. I’m enjoying her questions way too much.
“All?” I shake my head. “Not possible, but I do have what you might call a bucket list of geological sites I’d like to see before I die.”
“Such as?” Her mouth shapes the question around a distracting smile. I stare at her lips for a second or two before I answer. I can’t help it. I’ve seen her without makeup, so I know their shape and color are artful and sensual even without the berry gloss she’s wearing. They look soft, but not the voluptuous softness that gives everything away. No, Stella’s lips look like their softness has to be chased. And claimed.
What the hell am I thinking?
“Uh… Like…” I rack my brain. What were we talking about? Not lips. Definitely not lips.
Bucket List!
“The Blue Grotto in Italy, for sure. Vatnajokull Glacier Cave in Iceland. Glow Worms in New Zealand…” These are low-hanging fruit, the first easy spots I can drag to my prefrontal cortex. They aren’t going to impress her because anyone would list them first. It’s like saying I’m going to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower.
Wait. Why am I trying to impress her? “Th-the Turda Salt Mines near Bucharest. The Yekaterinburg Salt Mines in Russia. The Reed Flute Caves in China.”
She looks impressed, and okay, fine. I want to impress her. Also, this is the longest I’ve just sat and talked to her, and the more I do it, the less I want to stop.
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